Pushing Daises
by mr. eames
Summary: Kenny accepted the bad things in life rather easily. Until someone stole the notebook where he wrote, among other things, his love notes to Butters Stotch in. That was another story completely - his next death would probably be of embarrassment. Discontinued.
1. Virgin

**Pushing Daises**

**A/N**: Hello, first things first, if you're looking for slutty Kenny, I'm sorry, he's not here, but I'm sure you can find him somewhere else. For anyone who has read my other story, Addict, you might know what to expect from my Kenny. If not, you'll find out.  
Anyway, I always just like to say hi and annoy you guys with author's notes that I'm sure some people skip. But anyway, a few important things. The first...third?...of this chapter is in first-person, but after that it will mainly be in third, but Kenny is the main character. I'm doing the cliche defenitions thing.  
**Warnings**: I get angsty, I like the word 'fuck,' this will get philosophical at times (all the time?), I'm just as preachy as Matt and Trey, and Christophe is in this lots. And, oh, death.  
**Pairings**: Kenny/Butters and maybe some other stuff for people who read between the lines.

**Chapter One**: Virgin

**vir·gin** – _noun_.  
**1.** _A person who has never had sexual intercourse._  
**2.** _Any person who is uninitiated, uninformed, or the like_.  
**3.** _Pure; unsullied; undefiled.  
_**4.** _Without experience of; not previously exposed to.  
_**5.** _Being a mixed drink resembling a specific cocktail but made without any alcoholic ingredient._

My story starts while I'm trying not to exist, it starts with hypocrisy and it starts with impending death. It ends that way too and – damn – I've spoiled it, haven't I? That's alright though, because there's a lot in-between the beginning and the end. There's a lot that changes and even though those three things will happen, always, no matter what, no exceptions, there are differences and there are a lot of them and there are a lot of people to blame for that. I think that if I blamed everyone without blaming myself though, I would be a hypocrite.

I already am, we all are. You can walk through life and pretend you've never done it, that you've never said something contradictory to what you've done in your lifetime. Bullshit, everyone you see is a walking contradiction. The worst are activists, the protestors, the people who say they stand for one thing and one thing only but do the opposite every single day.

Pro-Life douche bags, walking around like they've earned their way into Heaven with their righteous pleas for life. Going home later and eating cows and chickens and other things that, by their standards, should have had life. When asked if they got raped, would they keep the child? They answer they would have it, but they would give it away. It's the same thing as abortion. Either way it's not going to matter to you, you won't be a part of the kid's life. You might as well have killed it, for all that baby is going to affect you.

I can't stand people like that, I can't stand myself. I think it gets to a point where you hate everyone and everything, because you've seen the bad side of everything, and the next step seems to obviously be that you should hate yourself. So you do and it doesn't make much sense – you choose your attitude, your beliefs, your values and your reactions, so you made the choice to be this person you hate so much. The funny part is, life is all about making everyone else like you.

Think about it, every day, for most people, without even realizing it, is a race to make everyone like you in one way or another. Whether you're going to be nice to everyone so everyone is nice to you or you're going to be harsh to everyone so they have no choice but to respect you – that's life. It's a race to the graveyard and for what?

So that when some girl you dated in ninth grade walks by on the way to her grandparents graves, she'll see yours, stop and think 'you know, I always liked him'? Most people would lie and say, no, that doesn't matter. But the truth is, if they could, the people in Heaven and Hell would have a little counter, just to see how many people go to their graves, because as far as I'm concerned that's all life is and ever will be. A popularity contest. Some people are contestants and most people are in the crowd, wishing they were up on stage and then some of us?

Some of us never even knew it was going on, and now we're sitting outside, while everyone else is inside watching. We're secondary characters, we're that person everyone kind of wishes they were. Not like the people who are front-runners in the contest. Everyone wants to be them, everyone is dying to be there, most people won't admit it, but everyone feels that way. But, as for us, everyone wants to be us in a different way, because we have nothing at all.

Having nothing is – well, it's good and bad. A person who doesn't have a lot of friends doesn't obsess over having any more. They're content with what they have because it's all they ever had. Once you get a lot friends, one, two, three, four, five, eight hundred and thirty-seven, you want more, more, more. And that sucks, because everyone wants more. So you're living in this society that wants more of everything, that can never stop wanting more, and then you see us.

Sitting outside at lunch while you're at the table with all your football fuck buddies. Walking alone through the halls while you're trying to impress every girl you see with stories about the pass you intercepted Friday night. Not giving a fuck in class while you pay attention, if only to keep your manly self on the team for the rest of the season. And you see us, and some part of your mind – in the very back, so that sometimes you don't even notice it – realizes that you want that. You want to not want more, you want to be able to drop the façade and just not care.

That's where the hypocrisy starts.

Because everyone cares, even the kids who act like they don't. Everyone wants more, even the people that swear they're fine with what they have. We're a needy, greedy, conniving group of beings, we humans and we're all alike. No matter who you see, no matter who you talk to, they are always thinking about what they can do to have more than you. To go to a better college than you. To score more chicks than you. To get through life and win, eventually, when more people visit their grave. Face it, more than anything you want people to care about what happens to you.

There are two groups of people, on the simplest of levels – which is an absurd statement, seeing as nothing in life is simple – there are the consumers and there are the consumed. It's different than you might think, in the grand scheme of life. In high school the 'nerds,' if you will, spend most of their time in the Chemistry lab and at Debate Club, sitting home on the computer studying quantum psychics. And they aren't, well, cool, I guess, they don't go on dates and the only time you notice them is when you're laughing at their sweater vest. Those kids, they're the consumers.

Your stereotypical jock? Running around the football field, blowing off his homework to have his hand up some chick's skirt, getting drunk at every party he possibly can. Oh, sure, he's got four years of that, he thinks he should be on the top of everyone's list and maybe he is. Then reality comes crashing down and he figures out that, statistically, he's blown it. Maybe one out of a hundred of these douche bags are going to make it to a pro sports job, and the rest of them?

Well, we've all seen the middle aged manager of the grocery store, haven't we? He's the consumed and the consumer, the dorky kid with the pocket protector who never partied hard or saw a girl naked outside of an accidental search on Google images, well, he's in his mansion, talking business deals on his phone, while his supermodel girlfriend – okay, maybe that's a little farfetched.

What I mean is, high school doesn't define you forever.

But for those four years? Fuck, they ought to make a dictionary for that shit, because everything about you, everything about everyone is always and always will be defined by others. It's a sad but true fact.

My story, though, begins before I knew any of this. It begins in Intro to Philosophy class and it begins now.

* * *

Kenny McCormick is a good driver. In fact, it's kind of his back-up plan, if school doesn't work out, he'll move to New York City and become a taxi driver. That is all he can think about in Intro to Philosophy class on Tuesday morning and that, while sounding innocent, is not a good place to be thinking of such things. Especially while he is trying to not exist.

It's his last hour of the day, he's already itching with the anticipation of getting out of school. Not that he has anywhere to go, just that he won't have to be in school once the final bell rings and no one can stop him from leaving then. But Intro to Philosophy is not a class that goes by fast, it's a gruelling why-did-I-take-this lesson in being sorely mistaken in the idea that this was a perfect blow-off class for senior year. Seeing as class only started a week ago not much has gotten done, except for introducing the theory that, well, nothing really exists.

Needless to say Kenny is not excited by this idea. It actually makes him want to throw up. Who does René Descartes think he is to say that we're all just making this up, anyway? It makes Kenny sick because Kenny McCormick is a creature of reason, despite what many would think. He likes to find reason in everything, he questions things and, mostly, he keeps to himself in this respect. To everyone else Kenny is, for lack of a better word, a bit of a pervert. Sexually-driven at the very least and most would assume that he is experienced, at least from the way he talks.

He isn't, he's a virgin in the sense of the word that most understand it to mean. The thing about Kenny is that he's content with this. He can sit in Intro to Philosophy and try to pretend not to exist and feel fine with the fact that, if it did work, if he really ceased to exist, he would have never had sex in his lifetime. Sex, while something that Kenny can admit to liking as much as the average teenage boy, is not what life is about. Although it certainly ranks somewhere in the top ten, below breathing and above alcohol.

All Kenny can think about is being a taxi driver in New York City, but he isn't supposed to be thinking about anything. The room is completely silent, it registers in Kenny's mind that he's probably the only one thinking about absurd things like taxi driving and he dispels the thought on the principal belief that most people his age have – anything to not stand out. At that very moment everyone else in the entire class might not be existing, he doesn't want to be the only one left.

Kenny is wrong, actually, he is one of a small number of people in the class actually taking the excercise seriously. Eric Cartman is sitting behind him, his breathing low and even as his mind drifts between dreams that feel real and dreams he wishes were real. In a sense Cartman, as most people call him, is the only one who has reached the level of not existing. Butters Stotch sits to Cartman's left and is currently scared that he will be grounded if he succeeds in not existing and also scared that he will be grounded if his parents find out he's not actually participating fully in class.

Butters Stotch is a complicated individual, one who has never fully grown up. It may be because of his parents. After all, environment is everything. One look at Eric Cartman can explain that – Kyle Broflovski once theorized that, had Cartman's mother not been so desperate to please her son, the large boy would be drastically different. As for Butters it has always been a matter of him pleasing his parents and the fact that they never seem to be pleased. Butters is a person who thrives on the acceptance of others, but so rarely gets it.

The aforementioned Kyle Broflovski sits across the classroom, his best friend Stan Marsh is sleeping behind him, but Kyle, like Kenny, is one of the few doing everything he can to try and follow the teacher's orders. Kyle is a strange breed of consumer and consumed. You wouldn't know he was the school's star basketball player unless you really squinted and even then the best you could probably do would be to say "He does kind of look like the point guard." He was known by name as one of the smartest kids in the senior class, though this was hardly his doing. Kyle would much rather hang out with his friends – something he does, at best, once a week – but his mother has been an advocate of keeping his GPA at 4.0, ever since he nearly failed eighth grade.

Stanley Marsh is dreaming. The dream involves a long hallway, twenty-one doors and no way out. It would make quite the horror movie, but he won't remember it when Kyle wakes him up at the end of class like he always does. Stan is a fallen sports hero, his archenemy is asthma, and though he was well on his way to starting in Varsity football through his first two years of high school, he can't even run half a mile now without having an asthma attack. There are a few reasons for this, especially seeing as though Stan has always had asthma it only became a real problem in his junior year.

The few things that have caused Stan to become an asthma attack waiting to happen can all be attributed to two people and the stress that stems from dealing with the two of them. Those two people being the redhead currently sitting in front of him as he dreams about opening up one of the twenty-one doors to find the second person, Wendy Testaburger, his on-again-off-again girlfriend. Kyle and Wendy, who never seemed to have much of a problem with each other through elementary and middle school, have been constantly fighting about who should rightfully spend more time with Stan.

Stan kind of wishes they would give him a choice, but even then he's not sure who he would choose.

Next to our sleeping Stan there is an empty desk and next to the empty desk there is an extremely worried raven-haired boy who hasn't been listening to anything all day. Craig Nommel is not a worrier in the least, except when it comes to Tweek Tweak, the twitchy blond who's desk is unoccupied at the moment. Craig is all talk – or possibly all middle finger – and though he gets angry easily and lashes out verbally he very rarely will assault someone physically. This is one of those rare times, when he's so worried and high-strung by a simple empty desk, that no one would put it past him to do what he was going to do when class was over.

Across the room a certain blond has succeeded in not existing, although it isn't entirely an uncommon practice for him.

* * *

Kenny likes Hell. Not because all the most interesting people are there – they are, but that's not why. Kenny likes Hell because Hell is easy to figure out. It's different from what he learned in Bible Studies and it's not as hot as most people seemed to imagine. Nevertheless after dying at least once a month for over ten years Kenny was pretty sure in the fact that Hell didn't change much, that there was a schedule and that, unlike most schedules, this one made some amount of sense. Surprising, really, when you consider who is in charge.

Kenny has a kind of bypass. Most people, upon showing up in Hell, are gathered into one of the more gruesome areas of Hell – where you can't see the apartment complexes and luau parties, basically – and get the standard Satan Speech. Kenny has heard it enough that Satan has essentially told him it isn't a big deal if he skips out on it, he is always back on Earth within, at the most, 24 hours, anyway.

So while the huge crowd of recent mortalities are getting the speech Kenny is trying to find a familiar face. There are a lot of people in Hell that he knows. Some just by reputation, like Hitler, Gandhi and Jon Benet Ramsey. Still, it is a rarity that he ever sees the same person after two deaths in a row. With the exception – because there's always an exception to everything – of Christophe DeLorne.

Christophe looks like he is fourteen. That is something else Kenny likes about Hell. You don't age, you don't gain weight and you definitely don't keep any scars or bruises you acquire in the afterlife. Conversely, of course, you don't get any younger, you don't lose weight and you definitely have to keep any scars or bruises you have acquired before death. You simple don't change. Kenny uses this to his advantage, eating about twice his weight in food every other trip to Hell, because Kenny has an appetite to rival Eric Cartman's, it's just that no one knows it.

Christophe hates Hell. Of course, he likes it far better than he would have liked Heaven, because if asthma is Stan Marsh's archenemy, then God is the French boy's. Still, Kenny sees Christophe every time he dies and every time he is still amused by the fact that Christophe is an nineteen year-old stuck in a fourteen year-old's body.

Chances are that if you asked someone to describe Christophe DeLorne in one word they would they would ask if you were joking. Chances are you would be joking, because it is a well-known fact that the French boy simply cannot be described in one word. Not because he's a complex and interesting person – he is a little, but that's not it – rather because most people would need a few expletives to get out just exactly what kind of a person he was. And chances are Christophe does not mind this fact very much.

What he does mind is looking fourteen. Being a mercenery is never a job that your counselor will suggest to you. There are no classes at the college you attend that teach you how to avoid being caught by guard dogs. And, certainly, most people would never even consider it as a career path. Christophe is not most people, and he was a mercenary. Was, in the sense that no one really has jobs, per se, in Hell. It is in a constant state of chaos, or at least a slightly constant one, after all. Point being, Christophe died at fourteen and no one was really quite sure how or why.

Honestly, we're still not quite sure how or why.

"Hey, 'Tophe," is all Kenny has to say to the perpetually fourteen year-old French boy, who growls in answer and flips the blond off in a very Craig Nommel-like manner. Kenny sighs in answer. "You want to know something funny?"

"Not really," Christophe answers, rolling the sleeves of his black sweater up past his elbows, exposing his pale arms. This is simple Christophe body language, which one can interpret to mean 'Yes, yes I would like to know something funny,' even if that's not exactly what he has just said.

"I don't know how I got here," Kenny explains, shrugging and reaching into the pocket of the orange hoodie he's wearing. What he is looking for isn't there, he freezes, mentally assessing the situation, has a tiny freak out internally and calms down, all in one brief second, during which Christophe is talking and doesn't notice a thing.

"You mean...zat you don't know 'ow you died?" the French boy asks, slowly, one fingerless gloved hand twitching for an invisible shovel, the one that is currently sitting in the garbage dump, the one that will stay there until it corrodes with rust, disappearing for eternity just as it's owner did five years ago. "Well, does not ze Cartman boy do zese sorts of zings to you quite often? McCormick, are you listening to me?"

"Huh?" Kenny says, smiling outwardly, frowning inwardly. "Yeah, yeah, it was probably Cartman...you're right. I did have dinner at his house last night."

Christophe probably is right. Eric Cartman has found it increasingly fun to, over the years, actually kill Kenny. Making him even more of a bastard than he was before. Kenny doesn't mind much. He wouldn't admit it to many people, but he is best friends with Cartman. Buried deep underneath all the dirty clothes on his bedroom floor is his half of their Best Friends Forever necklace, and it's on purpose that he has never gotten rid of it. Kenny also doesn't mind because if Cartman is busy thinking up ways to kill him, well, Cartman doesn't have any time to think up ways to kill anyone else.

"Zat iz probably ze explanation," Christophe decides. That's it, he has decided, Kenny does not fight back after Christophe has decided something. "'ow iz everyone doing?"

"Um."

Kenny is not sure how to answer this. Everyone is doing more or less mediocre and that would suffice, but when Christophe says 'everyone' he more than likely means 'Kyle Broflovski, Craig Nommel and Gregory Thorne.' Funny, really, since if Kenny was to guess who had killed Christophe it would be between those same three people. There was no question that Christophe had been killed, in Kenny's mind at least. They all had their own idea of what had happened, none of them agree completely and, really, none of them care much, with the exception of the three people that were most likely to have killed him.

"Good," Kenny decides to say. That's not it, though, because unlike Kenny, Christophe will fight back when the other one decides something.

"_Good_?" he says, incredulously. Good is never good enough for him, it appears. Christophe is a being made out of extremes. Either he doesn't speak at all or he doesn't shut up. Either he is angry at the world or he is angry at...the world. There is no in-between as far as the DeLorne boy is concerned, you feel one way or the other and you feel it with a verocity that has never before been matched. Sort of like the hate he is now displaying for the word 'good.'

"Yes, good," the blond affirms with a small nod. He retracts his hand from the pocket of his hoodie and stares at it, as if he is perplexed by the fact that it is empty. "I have to ask you a question. You're good at reading people, aren't you? I mean, if I give you a scenerio...you can tell me who was the most likely to have done it. You know that sort of stuff, right?"

"Oui," Christophe says, his eyes narrowing. "What iz et zat you want to know?"

"Who, out of all of us – " 'us' being the only friends Kenny has, half of whom aren't friends at all " – would take a notebook from me after I died?"

"Easy," the French brunet says, waving a hand in the air. "I was expecting a challenge, McCormick. Eizer Cartman or Nommel."

"You're sure?" Kenny asks, a queasy feeling in his stomach. He already knows what the answer is.

"Of course I am sure." Christophe is disgusted that the blond would even dare to doubt him. "Zey boz 'ave ze same mindset as moi. For Nommel it iz based more on ze emotions he feels, while Cartman just wants to benefit from everyzing 'e does, not matter 'oo 'e 'urts in ze process, devoid of remorse, you could say." He pauses as Kenny stares at the ground in horror. Not that it was a big schock, but having it confirmed, well, now there were a million possibilities racing through his mind. "Why iz a notebook of all zings so obviously important to you, McCormick?"

Kenny doesn't answer, he runs a hand through his blond hair and closes his eyes trying to remember who he's pissed off recently. He can't remember, he tends to piss people off without even knowing that he's doing it. It's part of the reason that he would make a perfect addition to New York City, especially to the taxi cab industry. "Fuck," is all he says, under his breath, opening his eyes to see Christophe raising an eyebrow in interest.

"What was in ze notebook?" Christophe doesn't seem to know when things are best left alone. Neither does Kenny.

"My life," he says, before walking away.

* * *

Kenny does not call it a journal. He doesn't write his daily thoughts in the notebook, because that's all it is, a notebook. A plain, run-of-the-mill, seventy-page, red notebook, with his name on the top in black permanent marker. There are American Government notes mixed in with things that the blond never wanted anyone to see. One glance at the notebook wouldn't make you think anything at all.

So why had Craig Nommel taken the notebook? It is best explained in a sequence of events that begin on the bus Tuesday morning.

The first thing that Craig does every morning is talk to Tweek Tweak. Because Tweek Tweak is his unofficial alarm clock, calling him at half past six, making sure the other boy didn't die in his sleep or fall on a patch of ice and get amnesia. Craig doesn't mind this, in fact it's one of the few things in the world Craig looks forward to, even if it does mean waking up well before he really needs to.

Tuesday morning Craig slept in until his mother woke up him up, ten minutes before school started no less. Tweek didn't call, Tweek wasn't on the bus, Tweek wasn't in second hour, Tweek wasn't at lunch and by the last hour of the day Craig wasn't talking to anyone because – you guessed it – Tweek wasn't there. Without Tweek, it is important to note, Craig is not exactly the nicest person in the world. Not that he is with Tweek either, but you have a much higher chance of finding a rather content Craig when he's around Tweek than you do when he is with anyone else.

After almost seven hours of school, during which Craig's thoughts had spiraled into a very Tweek-like state of assuming the worst for his best friend, it should be quite easy to come to the conclusion that he was not in the best mood. And when Kenny McCormick fell out of his desk, dead, for no apparent reason, Craig didn't have the reaction he should have.

In the case of most people's deaths the reaction you might have expected would be something akin to panic, maybe a little bit of fear and possibly someone who could hold their cool and alert someone that, well, there was a dead kid in class. In the case of Kenny McCormick's death the reaction you might have expected was a little sigh – wordlessly implying an annoyed "Again?" – and probably a look over to see what had happened this time, but nothing much else. They were in class with Butters, however, who never seemed to get over the fact that Kenny died repeatedly, and the blond had left out a muffled cry into the sleeve of his light blue dress shirt.

Craig, however, had laughed. And while they were all used to Kenny dying no one ever really laughed at it, so half the class yelled at him.

The teacher, in particular, had gotten pissed off, when he had made it a point to flip the entire class off, and sent him down to the principal's office. The principal was almost an old acquaintence by this point and their conversation was much like listening to your favorite song over and over again – you knew it by heart and even though it was familiar you tended to get sick of it.

"How many times this semester so far, Craig?"

"Only twice, well...maybe three times."

"Are you_ trying_ to get suspended?"

"No."

"Then why do you keep doing this?"

"I don't know."

"Well...school is ending in a few minutes anyway, just...go get your homework from that class."

"Alright."

"And, Craig?" Craig turns around to look at the only authority figure who has ever attempted to listen to him. "Just try and graduate, that's all I can ask."

Craig is not entirely the smartest kid in school, but he is also not the stupidest. He is like Cartman and Christophe in this way, none of them quite having a grasp on subjects like math and science, but understanding history and language arts with ease. But where Cartman is something like an evil genius and Christophe was a mercenary, Craig is just our average underacheiver. And although he's not going to do the homework the Intro to Philosophy teacher hands him, he is going to spend all night reading the red notebook that's on Kenny McCormick's desk, sitting there, untouched, a virgin read to everyone's eyes but the blond who wrote the words.

Craig is going to stay up until midnight, reading everything in-between the notes for various classes and half-assed homework assignments. He's going to close to notebook and think about what to do for a long time. He will call Tweek Tweak eight times until he finally tries Clyde Donovan's number and the phone is picked up after the first ring.

"You'll never believe what I just found out," he'll say.

Clyde will listen.

And the next week of Kenny McCormick's life will be – no pun intended – hell.

**A/N**: So. There it is. I'm not sure how long I'll be making this. I know this totally isn't obviously Kenny/Butters yet, in fact you're probably like 'wtf?' because there's essentially nothing linking the two of them together romantically...yet. Key word. Yet.  
I would like some reviews, just because reviews make me write faster, hence faster updates, hence no waiting. But even if this gets, like, zero reviews, I'll probably still write it. Just because.  
I love Kennerz. c:  
Until next time, tweekers


	2. Exposure

**Pushing Daises**

**A/N**: ...Hey. I forgot to have a disclaimer last chapter. And I almost like, pissed myself. I'm one of those people that is sure FFnet checks that shit, like, they're going to look at this and be like 'WHO DOES TWEEKERS THINK SHE IS, TREY PARKER?!' Of course I don't think I'm Trey Parker, because I'm not that good of a singer. Anyway, point is, you know. I have a disclaimer now. So FFnet can't be a Copyright Nazi at me. Because, of course, people might assume Matt and Trey were writing this. When we all know that Matt has said before that he doesn't read fanfiction because he's afraid it will be really good. I'm rambling.  
I also have a slight complaint. I didn't get e-mail alerts for about half of the reviews, so I couldn't reply to them and Jesus knows I love replying to reviews. Seriously, he knows, I told him. So if I didn't reply to your review, I'm sorry. But like ah, thank you guys so much, your reviews were all really nice and made me happy. :D  
**Disclaimer**: Matt Stone and Trey Parker are owned by South Park.

**Chapter Two**: Exposure

**ex·po·sure** _– noun.  
_**1.** _The act of exposing_.  
**2.** _Disclosure, as of something private or secret.  
_**3.** _An act or instance of revealing or unmasking, as an impostor, crime, or fraud.  
_**4.** _A laying open or subjecting to the action or influence of something.  
_**5.** _The condition of being exposed without protection to the effects of harsh weather, esp. the cold.__  
_**6.** _A putting out or deserting, especially of a child, without shelter or protection; abandonment._

"There is no way Kenny McCormick wrote that," is all Clyde has to say. He has said it numerous times since Craig called him hours ago and he is still saying it as they enter school together. Craig is half-listening and half-looking for his spazzy other half, Tweek Tweak. When he sees him, sniffling into tissues and looking dismally sick he lets out a small cry of a joy and leaves Clyde to sigh on the sidelines. This is how Clyde Donovan often feels, especially since he's a second string player on the Park High School football team. He's never even made it into a game.

Nevertheless Clyde doesn't despair. He has a few good things in life. His hair, for one, is near perfect. No one would argue with this and it's the main reason he gets dates. No one can pass up an opportunity to play with Clyde Donovan's hair, it's just something one must do. Secondly Clyde has Token Black, his best friend. And unlike most pairs of best friends in South Park they spend their time playing video games and talking about girls. And maybe Craig Nommel. But that was only once and it was Clyde's first time drinking something besides cheap beer, in his defence.

The third thing that Clyde has is a two-for-one, girls and Kenny McCormick, something that most people don't understand. Clyde walks through a giggling group of the former to reach the locker of the latter and says an unceremonius "Hey," in greeting. Kenny is having trouble with his combination, he is swearing at his locker like it can somehow hear him. Clyde doesn't think much of it, Kenny isn't exactly known for being the most typical person in the world. What can you expect from someone who dies every few weeks?

"Have you seen Craig?" Kenny asks, suddenly, looking up at the brunet who narrows his eyes. What is it with people always wanting to know about Craig? Is Craig Nommel some sort of new Jesus Christ? Are the Jews going to claim that he's their Son of God? Clyde is kind of sick of people assuming that he knows everything about Craig and thinking that he will always know where Craig is. He doesn't. That is complete bullshit.

"He's over there with Tweek," Clyde replies, nodding his head slightly. He and Kenny both look to the best friends for, if nothing else, a moment of amusement. They are not quite what one would expect. Craig often loses his temper although he obviously cares about Tweek, and the blond looks near to tears half the time they're together. The other half, though, is the important half. That's the half that no one sees besides the two of them. Currently Tweek is crying out something about how he's sorry he didn't call Craig back, but he was sure he had pneumonia and pneumonia _kills _people, is not Craig aware of this fact?

"Oh," Kenny says, tearing his eyes away from the two to refocus on the damned locker.

"Let me do it," Clyde offers, holding out his German book to the blond, who takes it and smiles in appreciation before rattling off the three numbers. It takes Clyde one try and then the locker is open. Kenny stares inside for a long moment and then closes it without taking anything out. "What was _that _for?" Clyde whines. He does that a lot, but it shouldn't be mistaken for him being a crybaby, he just can't stand the inane goings on of the town he lives in, he's been sick of it for years now, nothing makes sense in South Park and Clyde likes things to make sense.

"Have you seen my notebook?" Kenny asks distractedly, looking around the halls like there's a mountain lion loose and it's only a matter of time before it pounces. "It's red and it has my name on it. I really kind of need it back." Clyde doesn't answer. He stares at Kenny for a long time before Kenny looks at him again. "What?"

"I think...I think Craig has it," Clyde finally says, his eyes widening. He scurries off like a scared little animal, probably to find Token, not to tell him what he now knows - that, good God, Kenny _did _write _that_ - but to talk to the only rational person he has ever met. Kenny, on the other hand, is taking this in. He looks towards Tweek and Craig again and sees that they're discussing something that he assumes must have everything to do with him and his notebook. Kenny's mind takes in the facts, mixes them together and digests them. There is no eloquent way to put it, he is screwed, majorly.

"Hey, Kenny!" He is even more screwed, Craig is watching him, Butters Stotch has just greeted him in front of everyone. Holy shit, everyone is probably watching them. Kenny is frozen, he is staring at the floor, he is not acting like himself, Butters is cocking his head to side and frowning, Kenny doesn't like it when Butters frowns, he wants to fix it, but he can't because Craig is watching and Craig will mess everything up. "K-Kenny?" Butters repeats the blond's name.

"I have to go to class," Kenny manages to say before he bolts away. Butters is left standing in the hallway alone. It has happened to him before, many times. But it has never happened when he is talking to Kenny. They have a strange bond that very few would expect, but it is there. Perhaps it is not the sort of bond that Stan and Kyle have, perhaps they are not 'best friends' so to speak, but Butters is still left with an empty feeling in his stomach as he watches Kenny hurry away. He doesn't see Craig Nommel watching him from across the hallway, but he wouldn't think much of it if he did.

Kenny, meanwhile, is trying to find Eric Cartman, because, really, this all his fault.

Eric Cartman is in the cafeteria. This is not an entirely odd thing, in fact, it is an entirely normal thing. The odd thing is that he is not eating anything, rather he is whining to Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovki about how he isn't eating anything. Kyle looks less than happy, Stan looks less than or equal to happy, Cartman is angry squared; it is a math equation in emotions. Kenny McCormick has just figured out that if his problems are the summation of Craig Nommel taking his red notebook and the fact that he dropped dead for no apparent reason, well, then the only logical answer is that Cartman is to blame.

"What did you _do _to me?" the blond asks harshly, slamming a hand down on the table that his three friends are sitting at. Stan is doing his homework, because Stan never does his homework the night before, and he glares at Kenny as several sheets of paper scatter to the ground. Kyle doesn't seem to mind, probably because there's no question as to who Kenny is pissed at. Cartman blinks.

"Whatever do you m - " he begins, tilting his head to the side in fake innocence.

"Don't even try that with me, fatass," Kenny hisses, pointing right at the accused. "That may work on our dumbass parents and maybe Butters does what you say when you pretend to be nice. But that's all it is: pretending. And normally I wouldn't give a fuck. But this is your fault. What did you do to me this time? Why did I die yesterday?" He is rambling and he does realize it. He does have a right to be angry, but Kenny is also aware that this isn't _all _Cartman's fault, the large boy is simply the easiest to blame.

"I didn't _do _anything to you," Cartman spits, matching Kenny in anger. "Jesus Christ, first they're out of Poptarts and now _this_? Honestly, screw you guys, I'm going to homeroom." Cartman leaves and Kenny lets out a frustrated groan, sinking into the seat next to Kyle. The redhead sighs and sits back in his chair. Stan is putting everything back into order, muttering something about how things just keep getting more and more fucked up around here.

"What did Cartman do?" Kyle asks as he wordlessly helps Stan find the papers he needs. "I mean, he's done some stupid shit, but I haven't seen you get that pissed at him since we were in elementary school and he ripped on you for being poor all the time."

"He stopped ripping on me for being poor?" Kenny asks, staring off into space and biting his nails. It's a bad habit he picked up at some point. Kenny has more bad habits than he can count. Biting his nails, smoking once a week, writing his most intimate details in a read notebook that anyone could read and, oh yeah, dying and coming back to life. It just isn't healthy, his life or, at times, lack thereof.

"I guess not," Kyle replies with a shrug. "But, I mean, what did you expect? Most people change over the years, but Cartman - "

"Yeah, yeah, more psychological bullshit from Kyle Broflovski, I get it." Kenny waves a hand in the air as he stands up. "You over-analyze things, y'know that? Maybe Cartman's just an asshole, ever thought of that? Because that's all it is. That's all it's ever going to be. I know in your mind you should learn something new about people every day, but that's now how the world works."

"I never said that was how the world worked," Kyle replies. Stan makes a small noise that almost sounds like a laugh and Kyle glowers at him.

"Well, dude, come on, you do kind of try to give everyone, like, life lessons every day," Stan says as he starts to write down his homework.

"I am definitely staying out of this one," Kenny decides when he sees the look that passes over Kyle's face at that remark. And he makes the right choice by leaving then. Because by the time Kyle and Stan got to their first classes, AP Calculus and Astronomy respectively, they aren't best friends any more. Not that this is anything to be worried about. It has been happening since the beginning of Junior year or at least that's when it started to get bad. Cartman says that if anyone is Stan's on-again-off-again girlfriend, it's Kyle. Kyle says Cartman can go to Hell. And Cartman...well, he probably will.

* * *

The attendance office has a dillema on it's hands. Kenny McCormick had been in school for the first hour of the day. Now, suddenly, he is absent. There is no record of him signing out of school, calling home sick, not even a call down from one of his teachers telling him that he's died again. Because, really, Park High School keeps good records on who died during the school day, they wouldn't miss something like that. But somehow Kenny McCormick has dissapeared from the building. In a town as small as South Park there is not a large population of high school students, they tend to notice when someone goes missing.

But Kenny has not gone missing. He is quite certain of where he is, it is just that no one else is certain of this as well. Kenny is not as far away as the secretary in the attendance office believes he is. "He could be in _China _for all we know!" she had cried earlier. The secretary is, admittedly, a bit of a worrier. Kenny is not in China, he wouldn't be caught dead there. Well, he might be caught dead, but certainly not alive, not of his own free will. Child labor isn't exactly Kenny's thing. No, Kenny has decided to take a sick day.

Not that he's actually sick. Tweek is sick, with some sort of cold that will probably soon be spreading through the school like wildfire because no one can keep their hands to themselves, but Kenny's version of sick? Is sitting in Kyle's car a few blocks away from the school and smoking a cigarette. He sneezes and groans to himself, he is probably catching what Tweek has, and knowing his luck it will turn into pneumonia and he will be dead within the week. Kenny perfers the quick deaths to things like this. Dragging things out is so pointless. Sometimes Kenny kind of agrees with the dead French boy, God is such a cocksucker.

While Kenny sits in his car and smokes a cigarette, Craig sits in class and plans. He's feeling a bit less milicious today, because, really, Tweek. But he's still not in the best of moods, seeing as he is Craig Nommel and all. So maybe his first plan - which involved the entire student body knowing _just _what Kenny McCormick really thought of Butters Stotch - wasn't the best way to go. Craig's thinking subtly might be the best method in this case. Because, well, Kenny _knows _that someone has his notebook. Craig isn't aware that the blond knows who actually has it, but he is aware of the fact that Kenny isn't in school. And to Craig this simply means that Kenny is freaking out, and he's not wrong about that.

Kenny is freaking out. Not because there's a chance someone knows. Not because that person might expose him to the school. But because it's a crush, a stupid little crush he has on Butters Stotch. He doesn't care if people know. If he was dating Butters he wouldn't care if people knew. He wouldn't care if people knew he played for both teams. But it's a secret and Kenny does not take secrets lighly. No one knows anything about him liking Butters, it's his own business, and now Craig - seriously, _Craig _- knows.

Kenny would feel the same exact way if he liked Wendy Testaburger. He would feel the same exact way if he liked Kyle Broflovski. It's not who he likes, but the simple fact that he does like someone and he doesn't want anyone to know and now Craig is going to ruin that. Kenny buries his face in his hands and lets the dying cigarette roll to the floor of the car. God, he can only imagine Craig telling _everyone_. He can only imagine the rejection on Butters' face, the laughter from Cartman, the surprise from everyone else and maybe a few people muttering "I knew it!"

It is devestating to the blond. So much of his life - so much of his death, really - has been an exposition for everyone else and he has never liked it. The one thing that was really his, the adoration he felt for Butters Stotch, and it can't even stay a secret.

"Goddammit," he mutters. There's a tapping at the window. Kenny looks up to see Kyle looking in. The redhead waves a gloved hand and nods towards the passenger seat. Time went by fast, Kenny thinks, as he shifts over so Kyle can get in to drive.

"I skipped too," Kyle says, turning the key in the ignition. He hands the other key over to Kenny. Kenny has a key to Kyle's car. Kenny can't afford a car, Kyle can, and so they share it as evenly as they can. "School's almost over though."

"Only you," Kenny says, leaning back in the passenger's seat, "would skip school when it's almost done, Broflovski."

"And only you," Kyle retorts, pulling his green ushanka down so it covers every red hair, looking both ways, and then recklessly taking off like the good teenager he is, "have the ability to piss Cartman off for a whole day without even being in school, McCormick. I appreciate it, really, I do."

"Least I can do," the blond says with a grin. He looks out the window, it's going to snow soon. Not surprising, considering where he lives. It's just barely February, the one month that Kenny has a hard time spelling. February is such a useless month, Kenny thinks, it's the shortest month of the year always and every four years it has to fuck up the number of days. As for Valentine's Day, ha, maybe it once had meaning, but now it's all antiacids in the shape of body organs and awkwardness if no one gives you a lame card with such heartfelt words as 'BE MY VALENTINE?' And then there's the pressure to have someone on Valentine's Day or to sit alone and feel utterly useless to the human race if you have no one to make out with.

Valentine's Day is lonely no matter what, because it isn't real.

Sometimes Kenny astounds himself with the sheer amount of force and belief he has in his meaningless thoughts.

"So why'd you skip, then?" Kyle asks, biting on his lip. They all have bad habits. Kenny briefly wonders if there is such a thing as good habits, like cleaning your room or washing your hands or brushing your teeth. Then he remembers that that's a mental disorder.

"Just...just a shitty day from the start, I guess," Kenny responds. It's a little white lie. So white, in fact, that it's probably more of an albino lie. Becuase it has been a shitty day from the start, Kenny is simply leaving the 'why' out of the statement. Kyle won't ask why, because Kyle is not a very nosy person. The redhead just nods and accepts the explanation, he knows there's more to it than what Kenny is telling him, but that's not exactly his problem, now is it? "How about you?"

"Well," Kyle starts with a little sigh. Kyle's problems, on the other hand, are everyone's problems. He broadcasts them to the entire world without even saying a word, he wears his emotions on the orange sleeves of his jacket, and sometimes they even spill out to his green gloves. One look at the Jew and you can know how he feels - angry, happy, sad, indifferent, you name it and Kyle will tell you why. He wants you to know why, he wants to explain himself and he doesn't do a half bad job in doing do. "Well, it's Stan."

"No shit," Kenny tells him, and Kyle glares at him. "Continue, continue, though, what did Stan do this time?" Because according to Kyle it's always Stan's fault and according to Stan it's always Kyle's fault. By the end of the night they'll be playing Guitar Hero together, but for right now Kyle is super-hardcore angry and Stan is stuck either walking or taking the bus home.

"He's...he's _stupid_," Kyle spits as he slams on the breaks at an intersection. Kenny stares at Kyle, because 'stupid' isn't exactly the harshest insult in the entire world. It's funny how Kyle can rip most people apart with biting words, but when it comes to Stan the best he can do is call him 'stupid.' "And he like...doesn't listen. I mean since when do I give people life lessons?" Kenny opens his mouth to point out, well, since about third grade. "More than _him _I mean. He does it too. So he's stupid. Really fucking stupid."

"You're upset because he pointed out something that was true?" Kenny asks as Kyle makes a sharp turn. Something falls off the back seat but neither of them notice it. They probably should notice it, considering it's going to cause some problems later, but for right now both the blond and the redhead are busy conversing about their raven-haired friend, so the tiny sound of shattering glass from the birthday present Stan got Wendy goes completely unnoticed.

"Well," Kyle says again. He often starts sentences out with 'well,' and if anyone dares to point it out they are subjected to the wrath of Kyle Broflovski. Which is not a very pleasant wrath at all. "Well it's not so much _that_. I can take the fact that he pointed it out, but he acted like it was stupid or something, but he does it too. So he's stupid. You know what I mean?"

"No, Kyle, that's retarded," Kenny informs his friend. Kyle grimaces but listens to what Kenny has to say. Kenny is one of the few people in the world who can actually ignore the Broflovski Bad Mood, live through it and, sometimes, even fix it. "You're retarded, you know that? I mean, you Stan, half the time, you guys run around all gay and shit and happy and then the other half of the time you're like _this_. Every time without fail you end up being friends again when you save Stan from an asthma attack or whatever a few hours later any way. The real problem isn't you guys, it's Wendy."

"_Wendy_?" Kyle says, skeptically. "What does Wendy have to do with us?"

"Uh, besides, like, everything?" Kenny points out. "If you will recall, everything is always better between you two when Wendy isn't in the picture. And it's not exactly her fault either, you're just a jealous bitch." Kyle sighs. Kenny is right. He is a bit of a jealous bitch. "By the way, did you talk to Butters' at all today?"

"Who talks to Butters?" Kyle asks, blatently. He does not mean it in the sense that talking to Butters would be a deplorable act. They all talk at Butters, but only two people really talks to him. If Butters just so happens to be around they don't mind. He is like some sort of add-on, always in the background somewhere, though hard to notice if you aren't looking for him. What Kyle means is that there are only people in the world who talk to Butters - Kenny and Cartman - and the idea that anyone else would do such a thing is a bit absurd. Kenny doesn't appreciate this sentiment. Kyle shrugs. "Sorry, dude, but why would I talk to Butters?"

Kenny frowns. In his opinion, he can't see a reason why someone _wouldn't _want to to talk to Butters.

* * *

It's almost daybreak when Kenny first notices that he's missed a few calls on his cell phone as he rolls over in bed, unable to sleep. It isn't a good cell phone. Everyone else's parents buy them cell phones that can take pictures and go on the internet. Kenny's phone calls people, which apparently just isn't enough these days. He pays for the bill himself by working at Harbucks, or at least he pretends to work at Harbucks, mostly he just shows up to get his paycheck and Tweek makes a concerted effort to lie for him - because if they figured out that Kenny wasn't coming to work they might think he has bad friends. And if Tweek's parents think he has bad friends then they won't let him hang out with any of his friends. Which would mean not hanging out with Craig and that's almost as bad as not drinking coffee.

Almost.

Kenny doesn't care much, he has a different blond to look after, Tweek can cry to Craig if he needs to. The missed calls on Kenny's phone are all from one person. Kenny calls Butters back as he rummages through the clothes on his floor, trying to find something that isn't utterly disgusting. It isn't as easy as your might think. As he picks up a dark green sweater and 'hmm's at it the answering machine picks up on the phoneline, telling him the Stotch's aren't there right now but they'll get back - _shit. _

Luckily enough for Kenny no one is up at four in the morning, at least no one that is looking out the window to see hurrying down the street in boxers, a t-shirt and his old, ratty orange parka, the one that barely fits and might as well be in the garbage with his life at this point. He finds Butters sitting outside on his front porch, staring at the snow covering his yard.

"You called me?" Kenny breathes the words out in a huff of exhausted air. Their eyes meet. Butters' smiles and so does Kenny. These are the times when it is good to be alive.

"Y-yeah," Butters says as Kenny sits next to him on the porch. "I just wanted to talk to someone...but ya weren't answerin' the phone and all. An' then my dad got mad because it's really late, an' I told him that I just couldn't sleep, because sometimes I can't sleep, so he told me to go outside so I'm not disturbin' them or nothin'."

Kenny is well-versed in these situations. Before, years back, when he first started watching out for Butters, he used to get angry at Butters' parents. But he has since learned that it doesn't help much to get angry at people like the Stotch's. Much like it doesn't help to get mad at his own parents. The only difference is that Kenny's parents will yell right back at you. Butters' parents can do much worse and no one really seems to expect it from them.

"Do you want to go to my house or something?" Kenny asks, watching as Butters exhales a fog of breath into the air with a small smile. Kenny used to do things like that when he was a kid. Butters' still does things like that.

"Aw, heck, but the sun's about to rise," Butters says in answer, leaning back on the porch to look up at the sky.

"What's so great about the sunrise?" Kenny says the words, innocently enough. Kenny is, of course, aware of the fact that most people see sunrises as nice, maybe even relaxing. Kenny doesn't see what the big deal is. The sun rises every day, you might as well get just as excited about school or something crazy like that.

"W-well," Butters stutters out, looking up at the sky, which is, currently, a murky afterthought of rainbow, the stars just barely showing as the sun rises in the distance, "I guess just because it's a new day, ya know? New days are always gonna be better, or at least ya can hope they will be. I guess that would be why. I like the stars more, though, they're even prettier, 'cause there's a lot of 'em up there and they're all shining real bright. It's pretty."

"Yeah, I guess," Kenny says with a shrug, his eyes on the blond sitting next to him, rather than on the sky he's supposed to be watching. "The thing about stars is, yeah, they're pretty, but as soon as the sun rises you can't even see them. Sometimes I sort of forget they're even there." Butters turns to look at him in surprise, but Kenny continues, not looking away. "And, you know, sometimes I feel the same way, like I'm this distant star out in the sky and all it's gonna take is something a little bit brighter and a little bit closer and everyone will just forget about me."

"Oh no," Butters says, shaking his head. "How could anyone ever forget about _you_, Kenny?"

It's funny that neither one of them is watching as the sun just barely starts to show over the horizon, as the stars in the sky fully dissapear from view. Kenny flushes, because no one has ever quite said something like _that _to him before. Kenny is not the sort of person to become embarrassed easily, but this week is not going to be easy for him. This is just the first time among many where he will not be sure what to say.

"Jesus, Butters," is all he can say for a moment. Then, "I really love you sometimes, you know that?"

"Well, gosh, Kenny, I like you a whole lot, too."

There is a point in everyone's life where their heart actually breaks. It cannot happen more than a few times and I don't think it will never hurt as much as it does the first time it happens. Because the first time your heart breaks is the first time it's ever felt real pain. Not tangible pain, you will not feel it as it happens. You will not be able to tell the doctor where it hurts exactly and he won't have any pills to solve your problem this time. You might not even realize that your heart is broken until a week, month or even years later.

When you do realize it though, it's a shock to the system. You retreat into this shell, unique to every person who has ever lived; no one does it quite the same. Some people can do it without anyone even knowing, Kenny will not be so lucky at this point. There is another thing about your heart breaking. There are only ever going to be a few select people with that power over you and you have to give them that power.

There's no exchange, you don't say, alright, here's my heart, take good care of it. You do in a sense, but you can never really trust that they've gotten the message and that's how they get the power. Once you surrender your heart to them and try to let them know that – it's all a matter of if they understand that. If they know they have that power and if they're good person, they'll take care of things to make sure your heart doesn't break.

But sometimes it doesn't matter if they're a good person, because somewhere the lines got crossed. They don't understand what they heard, they don't understand what it means to you, it doesn't mean the same thing to them – _something. _And even though they mean well, they drop it. They won't be careful because they just don't know, and suddenly it's a slow motion moment, you look back and see the events that all led up to this point, until you see your heart. It's not made of glass or crystal, you can't see through it, but there it is, falling, and you're helpless to stop it. So what do you do?

Well, it is an experience unique to everyone.

For Kenny, he simply smiles and nods. For this moment he will hide what he feels. Somewhere in his mind there is a scramble for things to make sense. Does it matter any more if everyone knows? It most certainly does, because even a broken heart can still love someone. Kenny does not know why Butters' words affected him so. He only knows that they did. He only knows that he was wrong, earlier, that when Butters finds out how he feels he'll be accepting and he will not reject Kenny, not fully, things just won't change a bit.

But there is a tiny bit of Kenny, hidden among the fragments of his heart, a tiny bit that wants to be exposed. A tiny bit that does not care what anyone else thinks. That tiny bit of Kenny wants his secret to be told to the world, if only Butters Stotch will tell him that 'like' is too mild a word to describe how he feels. That 'love' would be so much better. That is all Kenny wants to hear.

**A/N**: My stories always seem to involve someone in their boxers, I swear. God, I love boxers. :s  
Alright so if that wasn't blatent enough Kenny/Butters I don't know what to tell you. Um, someone asked me to write a companion to Addict a while ago showing what Kenny went through. I didn't really want to do it. It would be sort of like the Lord of the Rings making a whole movie about Bilbo just to make more money...oh right they're doing that. But anyway, the whole sunrise thing was the beginning of that. I started writing it and...decided to put it in this instead. Just thought I'd let you guys know.  
(By the way, I love LotR and I'm well aware the the Hobbit came out before the original LotR books, I read them all, I just think it's obvious that they wouldn't be making a movie out of the Hobbit had the LotR films not been so successful...yeah.)  
Until next time, tweekers


	3. Lost

**Pushing Daises**

**A/N**: Oh finally, a new chapter, really? Yeah I know. I still need to spell check it, but I'm a bit lazy right now, sorry. I won't blab much this chapter, thanks you guys for your reviews and thanks for reading!

**Chapter Three**: Lost

**lost** – _adjective_.  
**1.** _No longer possessed or retained._  
**2.** _No longer to be found_.  
**3.** _Having_ _gone astray or missed the way; bewildered as to place, direction, etc__.  
_**4.** _Not used to good purpose, as opportunities, time, or labor; wasted.  
_**5.** _Distracted; distraught; desperate; hopeless.  
_**6. **_Destroyed or ruined._

"You know, and really, it's not even that he's being a total douche - and he is being a total douche - but it's not even that. You know?" Stan Marsh is flipping the pages of Chemistry book like the subject has offended him. Kenny is using the book as a pillow, or trying to at least, because Stan won't be considerate and shut up. "You _know_?" Stan provokes, looking up from the book for a second.

"I...who?" Kenny isn't really listening. Usually he would listen to Stan, because Stan is one of the few people who thinks the way Kenny does. They're the two that exchange glances when Kyle and Cartman fight for the millionth time. Most of their conversations revolve around one of three things. One: music, what's good, what's not, what's really not and what went from good to bad. They have one rule, if the music is bad now it will never be good. Two: Wendy Testaburger. Seeing as Kenny used to have a thing for her and she had a thing for him in ninth grade and to Stan's knowledge neither of the things were carried out and, well, the fact that they were, this is an awkward subject. So whenever Two comes up Kenny tries to segway into Three: Kyle Broflovski.

"Kyle," Stan says. Kenny sighs, of course they're talking about Kyle. The problem with talking about Kyle is that, while better than talking about Wendy, Stan is more apt to make crazy statements and ask for validation on all of them. Kenny doesn't usually accept them, especially since it's Stan and sometimes Stan gets so extremely irrational that he needs help to return to the normalcy of his rationality. Right now, though, Kenny could care less.

He is tired of hearing about Kyle Broflovski and his apparent personality problems. He was tired of hearing it from other people, because it never really was about Kyle. It was about what Kyle had said to them, done to them, how he had hurt their feelings. So typically conceited American talk. Me, me, me. No wonder everyone else hated them.

Stan launches into, I don't even know why I bother any more.

And Kenny just says, "Because he's your best friend, always had been," like it's from a movie script, "always will be."

"Mm, yeah, right," Stan says, so you know he's not even listening. "Maybe it's just that we're around each other too much. Do you think that's it? I mean, he's got his basketball, I've got my..." Kenny winces involuntarily as Stan fumbles the word 'football' and chokes it back down into his stomach where the acids can dissolve it into nothingness. No, Stan, no football. "I've got other stuff."

Like what, Kenny wants to say. "Do you guys even hang out?" he asks instead.

"That's what I'm saying." Stan chews on the plastic cap of his pen, stops, thinks, then starts again. "Like, he's got his basketball, I've got my own stuff, but besides that we pretty much hang out all the time. We have three classes together, sit by each other in all of them except German. Do you think we're sick of each other? Do you, Kenny?"

Kenny is sick of thinking. Do you think this, do you think that, do you think anything at all about me, me, me? That's all anyone ever asks, and if they ask about you, if they ask how you're doing it's only because they're about piss themselves from the excitement of being able to tell you how they're doing. Oh, that's great, really, but you know what _I _did yesterday? You know who _I _talked to? Really, I wish I coulda been there, but see _I_ was so busy...

Me, me, me, Kenny thinks.

It isn't even about Kyle, it's about Stan.

"I dunno," he mumbles, like that's going to help. Like not knowing anything is going fix all their problems.

And Stan just goes on, do you think it's something _I _did? Do you think, maybe, that _I_'ve been annoying him recently? Do you think...no, that can't be it. And he's asking Kenny what's gone wrong with them recently, when really he should be asking Kyle and Kenny says as much. Stan, fallen hero Stan Marsh, the kid that everyone said was going to make it but never really did, shakes his head. Nah, he says, nah he'd never tell me if something was wrong. "That's the kind of thing you keep to yourself."

"What? You guys don't tell each other stuff like that?"

Stan just kind of cocks his head to the side and frowns. His jet black hair reveals his eyes, one a dark sapphire blue and the other lighter, grey somehow, like the clouds passing over the summer sky. Two places at once, complete confusion. Kenny just shakes his head. Never mind, he says. It's nothing, he says. He had forgotten that Stan and Kyle have never had things like this to tell each other. They've fought, but they've never gotten sick of each other.

How do you tell your best friend he's become a disease to you?

* * *

Wendy Testaburger is having the same problem. And a few others. Once, back in sixth grade, at the last slumber party she ever went to, between swooning over air-brushed models in a magazine named for an age well above most of its readers and admitting how far they had gotten with boys, once, somebody said that if Wendy was an animal she would be a panther. Sleek black hair, piercing eyes, gracious, but scary as hell. Everyone else was something like a kitten. Something that would make you gasp and put a hand to your cheek and let an 'awww,' tumble out of your mouth no matter who you are. Wendy was a panther.

And panthers could rip kittens to shreads if they really wanted to.

Wendy sits next to Kenny McCormick in her second hour, Photography B, class. They don't talk. The room is often lit in a slight glow and nothing more. It's quiet, mostly, unless a few of the boys decide to do something they shouldn't be doing. Even then their teacher just turns up his radio a little louder, elevator music drifting through the room, like they're all moving up to a higher demension.

Her pictures have turned out half-way decent. They would be a lot better if Bebe Stevens, the sex kitten, wasn't prowling around in them. But that was the assignment, pictures of people. Mr. Keane, their teacher, emphasized. "Capture their _soul_!" he had cried at them a week ago. His hands were always grasping at the air like he expected something to be there, the secret to how to get these kids to understand the artistry of the camera. "Capture their essence, not just their face! I want to look at them and know who they are, not what they do, not what their favorite video game is. Show me who these people _are_!"

Bebe looks like she's fighting for a spot in Playboy. Like she wants to be the next Playmate, only with clothes on. Lots of clothes on. Bebe is no slut, she wears sweaters and jeans and turtlenecks and tights under skirts that already go past her knee. Doesn't hide the fact that she'll give a guy a blowjob if he asks real nice. The boys joke, "Just say please," and Bebe just can't say no. Wendy hates her but she understands. Bebe wants to be loved, she's cried to Wendy about it over the phone and in her bedroom. She's thrown tantrums and nail polish, all because she wants it so badly.

Bebe Stevens the sex kitten, oh, how Wendy Testaburger the panther could rip her apart with all she knows.

"Doesn't look like Bebe," Kenny remarks, from the other side of the table. Wendy looks at him, but he's busy with his own pictures. She turns away, but then, "I mean, it does. But she's so vogue in them. Not literally, just, she looks posed and awkward. She's sucking in her stomach so you don't notice that she's got more than ribs. Makes her look like she's dead, like she used to be something pretty." He looks up at her. "That's the funny thing about people, they think they need to make themselves look pretty. But if no one did that, we'd all look a lot better."

Wendy bites the inside of her mouth and looks at the pictures. Remembers walking past Stark's Pond with Bebe, saying, "I was thinking about getting back together with Stan. For good. Not just a fling this time."

"Puh," she remembers Bebe saying, blowing her breath like smoke out into the air, like she was able to cause cancer, "like that'll happen."

"She's jealous of you," Kenny continues, holding one of his own pictures up in the dim lights. He concentrates so fully on the picture, but Wendy doen't feel that he's concentrating any less on what he's saying to her. "You're pretty, you know. Probably you do that thing girls do. Complain about how not pretty you are so the other person will tell you why you're wrong. Girls always do that. But she's not jealous that you're pretty." He looks at her, smiles.

"Thanks," she says, because she's been programmed to since she could talk.

"She knows she's pretty and that you are too." He extends a hand and pulls one of the Vogue Bebe Stevens pictures closer. "Maybe not supermodel pretty, no offense. But she knows neither of you are hideous. She's jealous that you've, y'know, been in love and she never has."

Wendy knows this, of course she knows this. She tries to hide her surprise, she scrunches up her pink lips and mouths an 'oh,' real slow, like, bam, realization is hitting her. Oh, I never knew. Oh, I never would have guessed. Oh, the poor thing. Poor kitten who's never known love, she only scratches and hisses at the panther because she wishes she wasn't so pitiful, that people admired her instead of adoring her. Oh. Wendy isn't sure what to say, so she says, "Who'd you take pictures of?"

"People." Kenny pushes one towards her, It's Kyle Broflovski, head bent over a Calculus book, biting his lip, in deep concentration. "He didn't know I was taking it. That's the method I went with. You ask people to show you their soul and they're going to show the pretty side. See that's Kyle, y'know? He's really smart but he gets so frustrated sometimes. About the littlest things. Like math even means anything."

"Did you take a picture of Stan?" Wendy asks. Like Kenny doesn't know. Like he's been oblivious to their rocky relationship since third grade and she's trying to hide the blush on her cheeks. Like, mmm, Stan Marsh, he's the one with the dark hair, brown jacket right? Like, well, I _might _like him, but does he like me? Not like elementary school. Not any more. Kenny hesitates, then shuffles his pictures around until he finds the right one, hands to her and shrugs.

It's Stan, but it isn't. It's the back of Stan, his tousseled black hair dishevelled and messy in the wind, his hat is clutched in his hand at his side. He looks tense, maybe his eyes are closed, but Wendy can't tell, she can't see his face. Her eyes go second to what most people would look at first. Flashing red lights, the white side of a vehicle emblazoned with red words that are a blur of motion in the picture. But she knows what they say.

"That's just Stan you know?" Kenny offers quietly. "He's not the one in trouble and he's not the one rushing to help. I don't think he knows how to feel any more. He doesn't show it, he just watches."

Wendy puts the picture of Stan standing on the side of the road as an abulance races past back on the table and slides it over to Kenny.

"He still loves you, you know," Kenny tells her as the bell rings. Everyone else bolts for the door, their teacher included.

"I know," Wendy replied. There isn't a hint of ego in her voice, she doesn't expect Stan to love her, but he does, and she feels the same way. She just can't stand watching the world go by, she's just not that kind of person. "What about you Kenny?" she asks, suddenly. "Everyone else is with someone or wanting someone or wanting everyone in sight. How about you? Got anyone special?"

For a minute Kenny looks like he's going to answer. He looks at the ground and opens his mouth slightly. Forms a word that Wendy doesn't quite catch, she leans closer, sorry, what was that?

But Kenny just says, "Not everyone needs love you know. Some people are fine where they are."

And then he's gone and Wendy's left to find Bebe Stevens sex kitten supreme, wandering around the halls in search of the One. Walking with her and getting tidbits of infomation whispered every time they pass a guy. "I heard he's cheap on dates, cute yes, but never go for cheap." Wendy nods. "What about him? Hmm, ah, of course he has someone. All the good ones are taken, aren't they?" Wendy nods. "Do you think he'd ever go for me? Really?" Two nods, but Wendy has no idea who Bebe is referring to.

As Bebe talks to some nameless kid who lives on some street and drives some sweet red car, no doubt, Wendy stands silently besides her. Bebe is all twisting golden hair around her finger and batting her fake eyelashes and wanting him to be the One. Nameless Kid is half paying attention and then glancing at Wendy and, when Bebe checks her cell phone, he's mouthing a 'Me-ow,' at her. No, Wendy wants to say, I'm a panther, Bebe's the kitten.

Besides, she thinks, who the fuck says me-ow any more anyway?

* * *

Eric Cartman doesn't know it, but his biggest choice today is not going to be between french fries and pizza today. At the moment, though, he's holding up the lunch line pretty well, muttering under his breath something like, "Seriously, you guys, I don't get why I can't just get both." The choice of what to eat is simply made for him, as Craig Nommel reaches out and grabs a piece of pizza, dropping it onto Cartman's tray and grinning at him like a predator seeking out the perfect prey. "What the fuck, Craig? Goddammit I hate people like you," Cartman says, viciously. 'You' being code for, Craig suspects, 'douche bags.' He doesn't mind, just grins a little wider.

"I have a proposition," he murmurs, in a very Craig-like way. Coming from anyone else's mouth it would end up sounding either awkward or sexual or both. From Craig it sounds like a threat. Cartman snorts, but moves his tray down the line, inspecting the other food choices he has. As the self-proclaimed King of Manipulation, well, he isn't scared of the guy standing next to him. Craig can pretend to be in control as much as he wants. If it's a proposition he's suggesting, he's powerless without Cartman's consent. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation."

"Don't I, Craig?" Cartman replies, easily, as he grabs for one, two, three, snack cakes. He can practically taste them. Better than sex, really, he's sure, although he wouldn't actually know. "You never talk to me, not on your own accord at least, since middle school." Bebe skirts past them in what might be skirt or might possibly just be a piece of fabric masquerading as one. Craig isn't above taking a glance, Cartman could care less. Bebe flips them off and Craig returns the favor. "So excuse me, _Craig_, if I don't assume that I do know the gravity of the situation. I'm listening, but it better be something pretty spec-fucking-tacular, or I won't be for long."

"Look, that's the thing," Craig says, "it's not going to sound that great when I tell you. In fact, you might even think it's obvious. But the thing is, it's information about someone, secrets from the source himself. And I know that whatever I could do with it wouldn't be that great. But, you, on the other hand. Well, I have to hand it to you, Cartman, you'll think up something good and nasty to do with it. I'll just sit back and watch." He licks his lips like they're in need of moisture, Cartman almost laughs out loud at the action because, by the sound of Craig's voice one would assume he's drooling in anticipation.

"So," Cartman snickers a little to himself as he hands over his money to the lunch lady who's ignoring their conversation as she does everyone else's, "what do you get out of this. You won't be satisfied with just watching, will you? You're kind of a selfish fuckwad, in case no one's ever told you."

Craig shrugs. "We've made deals before, I have a few conditions, but don't we all?" He grins again. They walk out into the lunchroom, the fucking teenage jungle. Cartman begins to make a bee line for his table, focusing on the orange of Kenny's parka. But Craig grabs his shoulder, pulls him back, shakes his head. Cartman doesn't care much, it's not like he wanted to sit with those assholes he calls friends anyway.

"Where are _your_ faggot friends?" he asks when they reach the table Craig normally sits at. It's oddly void of those guys he always hangs out with, occupied only by a English Lit book that's half-covering a red notebook.

"Hell if I know," Craig says, nonchalant, but his eyes say that he's at least a tiny bit worried about this fact. He shakes his head to himself, then sits down, motioning for Cartman to do the same across from him. The red notebook is pulled out to reveal the full cover and then turned so it's facing Cartman and pushed so it's right in front of him, next to his lunch tray. "Look but don't touch," Craig says, "there'll be consequences if you do."

"Consequences?" Cartman raises an eyebrow, saying the word deliberately, every syllable mocking what Craig must consider a threat.

"I know a lot of things that you'd be surprised about," Craig says, that grin, it's wolfish Cartman decides, showing up again. Craig is a lone wolf, completely in control of his own destiny, not relying on anyone else. At least, that's what he would like to think. "I know things you probably don't even admit to yourself, so look but don't touch, fatass, and I think we'll get along great."

Cartman narrows his eyes and looks down, inspecting the notebook further. "Why do you have Kenny's notebook?"

"Found it, after class, he left it behind." Craig licks his lips again, Cartman decides it's either a nervous habit or an excited one. "Don't know how you would forget something like this, really. There's some math in it, notes from different classes. At first I almost just threw it to the side, I don't give a fuck what Kenny's doing in his classes. But the stupid kid, dumb fuckin' blond," he smiles fondly at that word, "wrote what I have to imagine is his biggest secret in here."

"Which is?"

Craig pulls the notebook back towards him. "Ah, ah, ah," he says tauntingly, like a child on a playground. "Conditions first, then we'll discuss what it is we're talking about. Trust me, this is worth your while. This is your kind of stuff. It's the sort of secret that can ruin someone. Like you see in the movies. Only better, 'cause, y'know, this is real life." Cartman imagines Craig practiced this speech in front of a mirror, all the words sound so precise and planned, chopped up to sound casual, but sounding anything but.

"So what are your _conditions, _then, Craig?" Cartman says. If he was at all worried about his weight he would do what everyone else does with their pizza. Take a napkin and dab away at the slathered on grease, save himself a few thousand calories. But, to Cartman, he's already dug himself a grave that's considerably deep, so he's not to scared about what he's going to find if he goes any deeper. Craig watches him for a minute, almost fascinated by how much the other boy eats, but then he just shakes his head and blows his bangs out of his eyes.

Grins. Says, "One. You don't do anything without consulting me first. And I fucking mean it." Craig's trying to sound menacing, but it's hardly working. Cartman shrugs. "I really mean it, fatass. If I tell you that you can't do something you aren't going to do it. Because I know you don't have the morals to do it, so I'll draw the line somewhere. Two. No one knows that I'm the one who found this." He taps the notebook with his index finger, gingerly, like it's a matter of life or death. "If anyone asks, the information in here, where you got it, you don't tell them."

"I already have a problem," Cartman says in-between bites of the crust of his pizza. There might be a new grease stain on his shirt, or maybe it's been there all along, he doesn't remember. "First off, Kenny's not retarded. He'll know I got...whatever the hell this secret is. He'll know someone told me. Once he gets that figured out all he has to do is think of who would be willing to put it out there. It won't be Jewboy or that hippie fag, Stan. I know Kenny, he'll narrow it the fuck down and figure it out."

"Obviously," Craig says, leaning forward, "you don't care if he knows that _you _know, so what's the problem? I know Kenny isn't stupid, but let me ask you something, alright?"

Cartman mutters something that might be a yes behind a mouthful of food.

"Today, has he seemed worried, kind of jumpy at all?" Craig says. Cartman thinks for a minute. Thinks and, slowly, nods. "It's because he knows someone has this. You're right, he will know someone else is telling you shit from this." Craig traces a finger over the 'K' of Kenny's name, with the reverence that most people saved for the Bible. "If you had this, you would have already done something about it. He's waiting and hoping for nothing to come out of this, he's letting his guard down every second that his secret isn't announced to everyone. He's not stupid, you're right about that. but he isn't a fucking psychic."

Cartman is quiet, he pushes his tray away from him, half his lunch sits untouched. He isn't sure why but it feels - it _feels _- wrong. To do this, to agree to this. Maybe it's because it's about Kenny, the person he's claimed as his best friend since, what, third, fourth grade? Cartman licks his lips and almost winces, they're dry and it burns, stings almost. Then he nods. Nods a few times, almost forgetting Craig is there. "You know," he says, after a second, "I was psychic once."

"I know," Craig replies, the widest grin yet stretching across his face.

**A/N**: I like how Craig and Kyle are my favorite characters, yet I always make them out to be complete douche bags. God knows I love 'em though.  
Uh, yeah, Cartman's just an asshole. Don't get me wrong, I honestly love him as a character, I think he's fucking priceless, I'm just using his personality to my advantage. Oh and oral fixation much? I pretty much constantly have to be like chewing on something or licking my lips or some shit, so that's why everyone's like 'o lol, usin' my mouth' in this chapter.  
So how about it? Reviews? o u o


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